- Event: Chaos 003
Darin.
Darin. Darin. Darin.
You’re lucky it was fucking Bergman that Lee decided to team you with. The rest of us? We’d be walking the fuck out of that arena in the middle of this match. Walking off, drinking some PBR, and enjoying watching you get the shit absolutely stomped out of you by the other two. Hell, Solex and whoever it was might pull up lawn chairs, start a small fire, and have a nice, Highwaymen gathering watching you get the fuck kicked out of you.
Boy that would be great, sitting back, drinking a cold one, watching you get fucking eviscerated by whichever two of us waltzed our happy asses down to the ring that night. But Lee knows better, he knows Harrison, he knows Solex, he knows me and he knows Joe. He knew Joe was the only one with enough of a sense of honor to try to drag you kicking and screaming into relevance.
I mean Joe Bergman is a fucking legend, he’s a two time World Heavyweight Champion, a Hall of Famer, the man started the Refueled era as the World Champion. Then he went out and beat John Sektor. The man that had just won War Games. That’s Joe Bergman, that’s Halitosis. He’s a living legend, his tag team with Steve Solex is legendary. Everything Joe Bergman touches has a way of turning to gold. His breath is another story, but the man is as incredible in the ring as any man I’ve ever witnessed. He even managed to make Cecilworth Farthington tap out while carrying your stupid ass. That’s how good of a fucking wrestler Joe Bergman is. He’s unstoppable in the ring, the man is a living, walking, sometimes masked and breathing legend.
I’ll be honored to be in the ring with him at CHAOS.
But you… you… the one he’s supposed to fucking carry. The anchor of fucking anchors, the heaviest thing that’s ever walked out of a fucking ocean. Jesus Christ, what is the man supposed to do? Perform a fucking miracle? Drag you’re insane, moronic, stupid ass to the fucking promised land?
You think he’s just going to plug into 4Z wireless? You think he’s going to start palling around with you if he wins the tag team championships? You fucking cretin. He’s a fucking Highwayman. He’s one of us, he drinks PBR, sits on the porch talking shit until the sun goes down.
Darin, Joe Bergman will not become your next crutch. He will not watch you fumble around with your dick in your hand confused about where to put it. He’s not going to hold your hand and teach you how to play video games and embrace your inner idiot. He’s not going to sit on a roof and play fucking spies with you like Hollywood and Hanson did. He’s not going to do any of that because Joe Bergman is a man of integrity.
He values his legacy, he knows what it means to be a Hall of Famer instead of just on the ballot. He’s aware of what it takes to capture that lightning in a bottle and ride it to the top of our profession.
And you don’t have that Darin. This isn’t some moment like when they paired Joe Bergman with Andy Murray and they vanquished the Bruvs. This isn’t some moment where the odd couple is going to be able to work together to defeat the fucking odds.
Joe Bergman is there to do his job.
That’s it. That’s all. That’s all he’ll do in this match. When Steve Harrison has his hands around your neck, and he’s wringing away for all it’s worth… Joe Bergman isn’t going to try to get the crowd behind you. He’s going to fucking stand there, as cold as a statue. He’s going to stand there as silent as possible. Why? Why do you think that is? Because this isn’t fun for him, Darin. Working with you hasn’t been fun for anyone since Conor wandered off into the aether.
So now, Harrison and I are going to do everyone here a fucking favor, and beat the cold dog shit out of you. We’re going to isolate you Darin, isolate you in a fucking corner and pummel the shit out of you. You’re going to look over at Joe Bergman, begging him to run in and make it stop, begging him to carry you to victory once again.
You know what Joe’s going to say when you beg, when you plead with him to get involved?
His answer is going to be really, really, really fucking simple: No.
And while you’re coming to, staring up at the lights, wondering which finishing move put you there, and what network you need to be on, The Highwaymen are going to be riding off with the Tag Team Championships again.
———————–
The cot wasn’t helping Clay relax, he’d been sleeping in the musty fallout shelter for weeks. Barring the trips for CHAOS, The Behemoth had been uncomfortably balling himself up on a standard issue military cot for months. Two weeks into the Television title reign and his body already had started to show signs of wear and tear. His back ached, his shoulders were on fire, even the left arm that delivered The Texas Lariat had started to hurt.
He stared at the cot, the thin blanket he kept on it, and the pillow were both quickly wrapped in his massive hands and he stormed out of the shelter. It was dark outside, the full moon was high in the sky, illuminating the yard of the Solex household. He trudged forward, around to the front of the house and to the front door.
He knew better than just waltzing in. Even if Steve Solex is his best friend, walking into a home unannounced is a recipe for disaster. Especially when the owner of the home is armed to the teeth with more guns than an NRA convention. Clay sighed, knocking would admit his defeat. He’d told Steve he didn’t need to sleep inside, he’d be fine on the cot. But now, after two weeks of consistent punishment, back The Behemoth came.
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
Clay could see a flashlight peak around the upstairs frantically. Then down the stairs it came, with incredible quickness. The porch light flicked on, as Steve opened the door, gun at the ready. He sighed as he pointed it down towards the ground.
“It’s just you…” Solex grumbled under his breath.
“Sorry, couldn’t sleep. Fuckin’ cot was messin’ up my back,” Clay said stepping into the house.
“What fucking time is it?” Solex asked, Clay responded with a shrug as he started towards the couch. He threw the pillow on the black leather, and immediately popped the reclining legs out to give himself more room.
“Dunno,” Clay said as he crashed down on the couch, all two hundred and ninety five pounds made the couch shudder under the weight. From the top of the stairs a young man’s voice yelled.
“Is everything alright!?” Scotty Jr hollered out from the top of the stairs. Solex gave him a thumbs up and looked over at the clock. It was almost four thirty in the morning. Steve sat down in his Lazy Boy recliner and looked over at The Behemoth.
“Why didn’t you just walk in?” Solex asked, as he fumbled around with the remote.
“You have more guns than a fucking military base Steve, and did you see how you answered the fuckin’ door? You’d have put two shots from that .45 in my chest before I even made it ta the fuckin’ couch… Maybe I should have snuck in now that I think about it…” Clay said as he rubbed his shoulder.
“That green strap is a fucking curse,” Solex said to himself as he turned on the television. He aimlessly flipped through the channels.
“Fuckin’ tell me ‘bout it,” Clay grumbled as he tried to get comfortable. The two sat in silence, as Steve finally found NEWSMAX and let the political talking heads drone on and on.
“You stayin’ up?” Clay asked, Steve chuckled at the question, and looked at the door. A light thump, and Solex was up and out of his chair like an intruder was there. He scrambled through the door and picked up the newspaper. Clay had sat up on the couch, as Solex smiled, shaking the newspaper at him.
“Getting up anyway, paper’s here,” Solex said walking into the kitchen.
“You want some coffee?” Steve asked with a grin. Clay pulled his sheet up over his head and sighed as the kitchen light flicked on.
“What I want is some fuckin’ sleep…” Clay said weakly as Solex laughed to himself in the kitchen. The Behemoth finally shut his eyes, as the smell of Folgers filled the air, he finally drifted off to sleep.
————————————–
“Hey! HEY!” Scotty Stevens-Solex Jr poked Clay with a broomhandle, standing as far away from The Behemoth as humanly possible. The big man finally rolled over, his snoring finally coming to a halt. He stared through crusty eyes trying to make sense of the situation.
“Wha?” Clay asked while pulling the sheet up over his face.
“HEY!” Scotty yelled again, jabbing Clay in the ribs with the broom handle. The bearded man didn’t move, so Scotty jabbed harder.
“WHA!?” Clay roared as he curled up to protect himself from the broom.
“HEEEEEY!” Scotty yelled, poking and proding The Monster from Plainview with the broomhandle.
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!?” Clay roared as Scotty leapt back. The broomhandle was no longer in his hands, as the enormous man grabbed it getting to his feet. He snapped the stick over his knee, it exploded, sending splinters flying.
“Oh, sorry, Dad just said it was time to wake you up.” Scotty Jr. said weakly looking at the enormous man now standing half clothed in the living room. Clay looked out the window first at the sunlight, then up at the grandfather clock that ticked away in the corner. It was Ten Thirty in the morning.
“Oh, great, I got six hours of sleep,” Clay kicked the pieces of the broomhandle across the hardwood floor and into the kitchen. He looked over at the television, Scotty had turned on the only channel he was allowed to watch without parental supervision: PBS.
“Dad said we only really need five,” Scotty said with a laugh as he walked into the kitchen.
“Yeah, that’s what yer fuckin’ Dad would say,” Clay said, as he started to get up and stretch. Scotty emerged from the kitchen with a dustpan and the half of the broom that had the head on it.
“Why are you in here?” He asked as he bent down to clean up the disaster Clay had caused in the middle of the living room. Clay cracked his neck, and tried to stretch his arm out.
“I’m sore as shit,” Clay said getting to his feet. He reached around, finally finding a plain black t-shirt and pulling it over his enormous frame. The two sat in silence for a minute, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the background.
“Got tired of the shelter?” the broom was almost cleaned up, as Scotty looked over at Clay who grumbled his answer.
“No, I’m fucking sore and needed somethin’ softer than a fuckin’ cot.”
“Oh, is that because you have to wrestle so much?” Scotty asked, once again using the broom carefully to make sure he got every splinter from the broomhandle explosion.
“Yea… Why do you ask so many fuckin’ questions?” Clay returned the favor, the mindless babble on the television continued on, and on, and on, and on. Clay finally grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels. It had been months since he last watched anything but a wrestling match on television.
“Why is Lee making you and Harrison wrestle Joe? I like Joe.” Scotty Jr fired off his last question. Clay’s eyes narrowed, and he let loose his last disgruntled deep breath of the conversation. He stood up and started to walk out of the room, back to the shelter to finally get some rest.
“Because he’s a fuckin’ dickhead.”
—————————
Harrison. I need you this week, I need you this week worse than I’ve ever needed someone in the ring. My body is falling apart around me, my shoulders ache, my elbows throb, the knots in my back aren’t going to come out. Scottywood and David Noble did their job, they’ve beaten me down and here I am. A broken, injured, man. Clinging to a fuckin’ strap ‘cause it’s the only thing those dickheads in The Board want and I won’t let them fuckin’ have it.
I need The Miracle Man, I don’t need the man that showed up and got his ticket punched to the shadow realm by TAB, I need the man that’s incapable of losing in tag team wrestling. I need the man that fought in War Games for literally fucking ever after wrestling a grueling match with Bobbinette Carey.
I need you to show up, because for once, for once Steve, I can’t do this on my own. Sure, I could beat Zion this week, but there’s no fuckin’ chance I can wrestle Joe Bergman. He’s a technician, he’s a machine, and I won’t be able to match him in there. Not for any length of time, short, violent, bursts. That’s what I have at my disposal this week Harrison.
I need to lean on you this week my friend.
And that’s what Highwaymen do, they lean on each other when they need it. When they’ve taken a beating, that’s what friends are for. We march to the beat of our own fuckin’ drumb in this place, and it when it comes to defendin’ these Tag Team Titles, I couldn’t think of a better man to go to battle with. Yer a tag team specialist, a man who’s held these same titles a number of times. When you wear it ‘round yer waist it’s gonna feel right, it’s gonna look right, and it’s gonna be right.
Cause it is right. It’ll be back where it belongs Steve, and I swear to GOD himself, there’s no fuckin’ way were going ta give these up. There’s no fuckin’ way we’re gonna let that little love convoy, 4Z, coat tail ridin’ dickhead get between us and the Tag Team Championships of the fuckin’ world. ‘Cause we’re a fuckin’ team, The Highwaymen are a fuckin’ team, and we’re a fuckin’ team that doesn’t lose to dipshits like Darin fuckin’ Zion.
In the Enterprise Arena, we’re going’ to be put to the test by Joe, we’re going to be challenged by Joe, and we’re goin’ ta have to overcome Joe. We’re going to have to overcome everything’ he throws at us, we’re gonna have to overcome whatever the fuckheads in the back throw at us, we’re going to have to overcome everything Steve.
Because they don’t fight fucking fair, they never fucking have, and they never fucking will. This is the oldest play in the playbook, and they run it pretty damn well. Try to seperate us, try to break our will, but we won’t break. You won’t break. I won’t break. WE WILL NOT FUCKING BREAK.
Because we’re fucking Highwaymen. Because we’re the fucking champions, and if Darin Zion wants this fucking belt, he’s going to have to do a whole lot more than call you a snake oil salesman and me an old Texas Dipshit. This delusional little fuckwad needs sent packing, he needs his brain unscrambled, and we’re going to make it fucking happen. We’re going to attempt to beat the stupid out of Darin Zion, and I need you to take the fucking lead.
I want it over fast, I want Zion out as fast as possible. I want to do as little physical activity in this match as necessary, but I’ll do what’s neccessary to keep our titles away from that little mongrels fucking hands. Watch what that idiot said about us, watch those stupid words leave his stupid fucking mouth, and let’s fucking destroy him over it.
Let’s finally be done with him, and be done with this charade of putting Joe against us. Let’s make it quick, and get it done. I got another title defense coming next week.